


If Red Is For Hell

by biscuitlevitation



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, I Tried, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-07 00:13:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biscuitlevitation/pseuds/biscuitlevitation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tall, scowling, one-eyed man gets out of one of the dark automobiles that surround him. </p><p>“Mr. Barnes,” he says. “Or should I say Captain?”</p><p>--</p><p>An AU in which Bucky Barnes was always Captain America.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**2012:**

When Bucky wakes up, he assumes that he's dead.

There musta been a mix-up upstairs, though, because he's in a bedroom very similar to their apartment in Brooklyn, nary a pitchfork or a lick of hellfire to be seen.

He rolls to his feet, only to have his head complain violently. He thumps back on his ass, blinking heavily.

Jesus, what the fuck is going on? Was he drugged?

A wave of panic crests in his chest, threatening to swamp his wits. Christ, what if it's Zola? What if he hallucinated the whole thing? It sure as hell seems like it, what with that damned serum, the Red Skull, Steve's death – _his_ death – 

Bucky shakes it off and gets up again, slower this time. He's walking toward the open window beside his bed to get a closer look when a dame wearing a uniform and a smile like a suit of armor appears in the doorway.

“I wouldn't recommend being up and about so soon, sir. You still haven't fully recovered.”

“Where the hell am I?” Bucky demands, chivalry and charm be damned.

Her smile doesn't falter. “New York City.”

Bucky points out the window, at the strange, ugly, glass-and-metal towers that block the sky. “ _That_ ain't fucking New York.”

She stops smiling.

He bolts, berating himself for not doing it sooner. He ignores the pain in his head and how dizzy he feels in favor of dodging the black clad men and women who keep trying to catch him. 

He bursts out the door and runs for it, barely registering the alien city around him. Everything is too loud and too bright. He has no plan, no idea where he's going, only the vaguest notion of what he's doing.

They overtake him quickly, at which point all Bucky can hear is the blaring of horns and his own pulse. His breath is coming in short, harsh gasps, like Steve during one of his asthma attacks, and his limbs are weak and shaking.

A tall, scowling, one-eyed man gets out of one of the dark automobiles that surround him. 

“Mr. Barnes,” he says. “Or should I say Captain?”

 

 

**1942:**

Bucky stood at parade rest in a neat line with all the other super soldier wannabes. Erskine was conducting tryouts, apparently, and wanted to interview each candidate for his exclusive little boot camp personally.

He shifted his weight, irritated. This whole fucking song and dance was a waste of time and effort. There was no point in figuring out who was pretty enough for the golden apple; wars were won with men, and here was a good number of them sitting on their asses instead of doing something useful.

“Next,” the sergeant barked. Bucky flashed him his pearly whites, the sergeant glared in response, and he marched into the building. Just before the door swung shut, he relaxed his posture and stuck his hands in his pockets.

When Bucky found the right office, Erskine was reading a file, his head bent close to his desk. 

He knocked on the door frame. “What's up, doc?”

“Very funny, Private Barnes,” Erskine said dryly, in his clipped, precise accent. “Take a seat, please.”

Bucky stayed where he is just a tad too long, and then slowly made his way into the broom closet of an office. He dropped down into the uncomfortable wooden chair and shot him a wide smile.

“Nice place you got here.”

Erskine tensed, needled by Bucky's demeanor, but ignored his attempt to rile him up. “Why did you enlist?”

“'Cause it was needed,” he replied.

“What do you mean to accomplish? Do you want to kill some Nazis?”

Something about the way Erskine asked the question made Bucky feel that a lot was riding on it. _Fuck being some strong man in his circus_ , Bucky decided. “I just wanna go home, sir, but first I wanna make sure my home is safe.”

Erskine studied Bucky's face for a moment. “Why do you think that we are fighting the Nazis, Private Barnes?”

“They're bullies,” Bucky said.

“Bullies?” Erskine pressed.

There was a challenge in his question, so Bucky said seriously, “They're always pickin' on the little guys, like Belgium, an' the Jews. We're stronger than they are, so it's our job to protect 'em.”

“Really,” Erskine said, inscrutable.

Senseless anger sunk bitterly into his tongue. “Now _you_ might think that this is just politics, and shit. Hell, it might be, I dunno, but for me, this is about right and wrong. The way I see it, Hitler's in the wrong, so it's up to us to do right by the world an' kick his ass. You might not know how hard it is, bein' the little guy, but _I_ do. I seen it. So I'm not fixin' to just stand by and nance around with serums and power struggles while I could be _doing_ something, God-dammit, and neither should you. We _can_ help, so we _should_ help.”

Bucky realized that he had been lecturing a man who could probably get him shot for insubordination like a school teacher. 

He was about to attempt to smooth Erskine's ruffled feathers, but then the man smiled, of all things. A sincere one, too, not a bullshit one like Bucky used a little too often on his COs. 

“Thank you, Private Barnes, that will be all.”


	2. Chapter 2

**2012:**

He's been asleep. For nigh on seventy damned years, he's been frozen. 

Fury – that's the eye patch's name, which Bucky finds fitting – has told him nothing about what he wants from him. He hasn't even hinted that he does want something, but he's good at reading people, and people like Fury always have a hidden agenda or six.

He's currently sitting on the roof of S.H.I.E.L.D's New York HQ. He's hated heights ever since Steve – since the train. The plane didn't exactly help matters, either. His chest aches whenever he stares too long at the skyline of a city that doesn't look like his anymore, but his quarters are too barren, too quiet, and he's sick of the eyes that are always watching him as if he's some sort of carnival attraction.

Bucky laughs humorlessly at nothing and takes a long drag from his cigarette. He never smoked before, not even during the war, because it always made Steve cough even when he hadn't lit up himself. It was a miracle of a cruel God that he'd been able to get into the army in the first place.

“Well, fuck you,” he says aloud. “You ain't here, and you never will be, ya punk.”

He tells himself that it's just the smoke that's making his eyes sting.

How long he's been staring up at the gray sky when the door to the stairwell opens is anyone's guess. It's Fury. Bucky's sitting right next to the door so that he's hidden when it opens, and he has to look around a bit to find him. 

Bucky shoots him a shit-eating grin. “Director,”

“Captain,” he responds, his voice flat.

He sits in silence until it starts to get uncomfortable, and then says, “Well? The hell do you want?”

“There's been an incident at one of our facilities.”

“Congratulations.”

“This is a matter of national security, Captain Barnes,” Fury says, giving him his Polyphemus glare.

Bucky sucks on his cigarette and attempts a smoke ring. “So, what, you want me to put on a showgirl costume and fight whoever it is on my lonesome?”

“No, not alone, with a team.”

“Who I've never fought with before, that's just swell.” Bucky replies.

“America needs you, soldier,” Fury deadpans.

“Don't give me that bullshit, Uncle Sam. America _needed_ me. Captain America isn't gonna be a retread. I've just finished one war, and I won't have any part in another.” He squints up at Fury. “The hell are you, anyway, a recruiter?”

Fury shrugs. “It was worth a try.”

Bucky snorts in spite of himself. “Why you want me, anyway? Aren't you recreating the serum?”

“So far our attempts have been... unsuccessful,” he replies. “We need as many remarkable people we can get, and like it or not, you're one of them.”

Bucky rises and drops his smoke, grinding it into the concrete with the heel of his boot. “So what do I get outta all this?”

“What do you want?” Fury asks.

“For SHIELD to leave me the hell alone, that’s what.”

“I can't promise you that.”

“Then no dice,” Bucky says, and opens the door to the stairs.

“Do you really want some random soldier wearing your suit?”

“Couldn't care less.” He begins to descend.

“I'm asking you to take on this mission because you are the only one who can play the role.”

“I'm a shit actor.”

“Barnes,” Fury growls, and he sounds so like Phillips that Bucky reflexively stops short. “Something unlike anything you've ever seen before is coming, and we need people who can stand half a chance against it.”

“Can't you use the military?” he says belligerently. “You know, the people whose fucking job this is?”

“Complete this mission and I'll see to it that Steve Rogers' belongings find their way into your hands.”

Everything seems to freeze, even Bucky's pulse, when he hears that.

“...Throw my pension and a motorbike into the mix, and we have a deal.”

Bucky doesn't have to be facing Fury to tell that he already knows that he could ask him to cut off his own arm and he'd still do it, so long as he got Steve's things.

Thankfully, he doesn't seem inclined to haggle. “Done,”

Bucky makes as if to leave, but then Fury says, “Captain.”

“What?” he snaps.

“You might want to get back up here.”

Bucky sighs, but he complies. “Whaddaya want now?”

That's when a fucking jet lands on the roof.

 

 

**1942:**

Well, either God loved him or Erskine did. In any case, Bucky was one of the very special snowflakes who got to train to become the belle of the fucking ball, if the belle was the biggest, meanest motherfucker around and the ball was a battlefield strewn with the bodies of any bastard unlucky enough to catch a bullet.

They were on yet another run. Bucky was keeping up just fine. Shaw, on the other hand...

Bucky wasn't exactly a shrimp, but he looked small compared to some of these men, especially Hodge, the damn meathead. But Bobby Shaw was fucking tiny. He wasn't as short as Steve, but he was almost as skinny, and a hell of a lot more prone to whining. He didn't really like Bobby, but he was nicer to him than most other guys on the base, if only because he'd grown up rooting for the underdog. He didn't miss Steve _that_ much; it's not like he was _pining_ , or anything like that.

The drill sergeant spouted some shit about the flag, but all Bucky really cared about was getting to ride back to base with the English doll who was watching them. 

It became clear pretty quick that climbing the pole wasn't gonna work. A little light bulb in his skull went on. 

“Shaw, get over here!” Bucky shouted. He was standing about five yards away from the rest of them, probably avoiding someone taking the violence as an opportunity to slug him and claim that it was accidental.

Bucky had to admit, it was more than likely.

“Okay!” Bobby squeaked, and he scurried over, his brown eyes wide.

“Get on my shoulders,” Bucky said, crouching.

“Why?” 

“Just do it!” 

Bobby did as he was told, wisely staying silent. Bucky straightened when he was sure he wouldn't fall, staggered slightly under his weight, and made his way forward.

“Barnes!” the sergeant barked. “Drop Shaw and haul ass! We're leaving!”

“Gimme a minute, sir,” Barnes said, his voice strained. “For fuck's sake, Shaw, stand on my shoulders and grab the fucking flag.” 

“Um – how –?” 

“Brace with the pole!”

Bucky grunted in discomfort when Bobby's boots dug into his shoulders, but remained stoic through the smaller man's apologies. 

A couple seconds of Bobby panting in exertion, and then he said timidly, “How do I get it down?” 

“Shaw, I swear – ” 

Then Bobby lost his balance and came crashing down on Bucky's head, accompanied by a loud _riii-iii-iiip._

“ _Shaw_! _Barnes_!” 

Bucky shoved Bobby off his torso, groaning, and got stiffly to his feet. Hodge and a couple of his cronies were snickering into their fists. He glowered at them and turned to snatch the half of the flag that came down with them from a dazed Bobby. 

He gives Agent Carter a charming smile and raised the ripped half of the flag above his head. “This count?” 

He and Shaw had latrine duty for weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bobby Shaw is a character (based on a real person) in Paul Jenkins' _Theater of War._ I'll be using some of the comics' story lines and characters, but no prior experience with them is needed.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> EDIT: Beta'd by EstherCloyse, who is wonderful and amazing.


	3. Chapter 3

**2012:**

When they get on the plane, Fury wordlessly hands him a stack of files, smirking. Bucky's thankful that it's not some hi tech bullshit that he has to figure out how to work, but he'll be damned if he's gonna show it. 

Fury's been trying for weeks to get him to agree to this stupid mission, and he tried to give him these files every time. He regrets that he didn't agree sooner, if he's gotta read all of them on the short flight over. 

Bucky's tempted to ask Fury if he's fooling with him when he finishes skimming them. A man with a flying suit of armor, a god, a scientist who fucked an experiment up so bad that he turns into some sort of ogre when he gets mad, and two super assassins. It reads like some sort of serial, or one of the old comic books they based on him. (God, and hadn't he and the Commandos ragged on Steve for months after they first saw what they decked him out in.) 

He's studiously avoiding looking out the cockpit window when an unassuming man with a starstruck smile on his face approaches him. Bucky regards him warily. He hadn't even noticed the guy. It's no mean feat to hide from anyone in this flying tin can, let alone someone as twitchy as him. 

The man (agent, he's guessing) starts babbling something about watching him sleep. Bucky quirks an eyebrow, waiting for him to shut up already, then says, “Sit down. You're making me nervous.” 

The agent does so hurriedly, his mouth snapping shut. He fidgets across the aisle from him, his eyes flicking from Bucky's face to the floor and back again. 

“So what gear do I get for this job?” 

His eyes light up. “Oh, we made some modifications to the uniform. I had a little design input – ” 

“Whoa, wait. Backtrack,” Bucky says, leaning forward. “I still gotta wear that getup?” 

“Um, yes?” Coulson responds, taken aback. “I-I mean... I'm not sure if – ” 

“ _Yes_ , you do, Captain,” Fury interjects. “We need you to be recognizable.” 

Bucky starts to say something that he will no doubt regret, but the pilot interrupts to let them know that they're about to land. 

He's out like a shot as soon as they come to a stop, too grateful to leave the plane to care that they're surrounded by water. Coulson is quick to follow, reminding Bucky of some sort of suit-clad dog with a receding hairline. If he had a tail, it'd be wagging. 

A beautiful woman with bright red hair stalks up to the pair of them. Her smile is a warning disguised as an invitation, and Bucky might be tempted to take the bait if he didn't like his Johnson right where it is, thanks. 

“Agent Romanov,” Coulson greets her. “This is Captain Barnes.” 

She nods at him, then addresses Coulson. “They need you on the bridge.” 

“It can wait,” says Fury. Romanov doesn't jump, but the speed at which she whips her head around betrays her surprise. Bucky's lips twitch in subdued amusement. Fury's the kind of asshole who's fun to be around as long as he isn't being an asshole to you. 

“Dr. Banner,” Fury says. Bucky turns and sees a rumpled, anxious looking man hovering a yard or so away from them. 

“Director,” Banner mutters, sending a sharp glance at Romanov, who's keeping her distance, as is Coulson. His eyes light on Bucky, and flash with recognition. “Captain Barnes.” 

“Banner,” Bucky says shortly. Something in the doctor's expression shutters, and he feels an odd sort of guilt, like he accidentally stepped on a puppy's tail. 

“Play nice, Barnes,” Fury chides. He scowls at him. “We're gonna be moving shortly. You should get inside.” 

He turns and marches off in an over-dramatic swirl of black leather, Coulson shadowing him. He, Banner, and Romanov are left in an awkward silence. 

The engines suddenly roar, and there is a renewed burst of activity. 

“Is this a submarine?” Bucky asks, beginning to walk toward the edge. 

“Do they really want _me_ in a submerged, pressurized metal container?” Banner asks. 

Bucky huffs out a half-laugh. “It'll sure as hell keep things interesting, at least.” 

They look down into the water, and at first he can't comprehend what he's seeing. 

“Oh, no, this is much worse,” Banner says cheerfully, as they begin to rise. Bucky staggers back, feeling himself turn pale, and then turns on his heel and strides back to Romanov, who's watching him with an expression that's a little too knowing for his tastes. 

\--- 

“You want me to _what_?” 

The very pretty, very intimidating Agent Romanov says tonelessly, “Jump.” 

He looks down on the plaza below, where his target seems to be in the middle of a megalomaniacal rant in a getup that wouldn't be out of place in an opera. Bucky's almost surprised that he's not twirling a handlebar mustache and tying a dame to a railroad track. 

“Without a parachute?” 

“Yes,” she says, impatience bleeding into her voice. He tries not to cower too noticeably. 

He dawdles at the edge, but then Loki levels his weapon at a dignified old man, who for whatever reason had been sassing him in English. 

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky mutters, and tips out of the jet. He screams the whole way down. 

Bucky lands at an awkward angle, and stumbles a little, cursing vehemently. Thankfully, Loki seems too nonplussed to do anything but stare, so he goes ahead and hurls the shield at him. 

The god deflects it with his staff, but Bucky uses the distraction as a chance to tackle him. They grapple for a while – Bucky's not sure who's winning, seeing as Loki's got the whole godly strength thing going for him, but those ridiculous horns on his helmet are a real design flaw – and then Loki gets in a good kick and he flies off him and rolls for a couple feet, coming to a stop beside his shield. 

He gets up and throws it at him again, but it hits him the same time as some sort of blast from god knows where, so the blast bounces off the shield and hits – Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, _a flying suit of armor_. That _flies_. (Seeing it in the files really didn't prepare him for seeing it in the flesh -- or metal, as the case may be.) But not anymore, apparently, judging by its sudden kamikaze swan dive. Whoops. 

Loki's on his feet again, but his staff is lying midway between he and Bucky. Their eyes meet for a long, frozen moment, and they both dive for it. Bucky reaches it first (good for him, 'cause those horns would've gored him) and they engage in a juvenile tug-of-war for it, the business end pointed at Loki. 

“How the fuck do you fire this?” Bucky roars, his serum-enhanced muscles straining. 

Loki sneers. “Foolish human, mortals are incapable – ” 

Loki is blasted to the side by what looks like a miniature torpedo, leaving Bucky to stare dumbly at the smoking end of the alien weaponry where he was standing a moment ago. 

“Way to ruin my entrance,” an achingly familiar voice complains. 

Bucky slowly turns, and meets the eyes of Howard Stark.

 

 

**1942:**

“You want to pick _Barnes_?” Colonel Phillips asked incredulously. 

“Yes,” Erskine said calmly. 

“But – but he's _Barnes_!” 

“Exactly.” 

Phillips turned to face him. The German doctor didn't look away from where Barnes' unit is powering through a set of push-ups. 

“Do us all a favor. Hodge has passed _all_ the tests. He's big, he's strong, he _follows orders_ – he's a soldier!” 

“He's a bully,” Erskine countered, “not to mention an idiot. He has always been strong, so he does not value strength.” 

“Well, with that logic, you might as well pick Shaw,” Phillips snapped, gesturing toward where Bobby Shaw lay face down in the dirt, unable to do another push-up. 

“Private Shaw lacks the will to try to overcome his limitations,” Erskine opined. “We do not need merely a soldier, Colonel. We need a leader.” 

Phillips sighed disgustedly, then took a dummy grenade from a nearby crate, and threw it into their midst. “Grenade!” 

They all scrambled for cover, except for Barnes, who grabbed it and threw it a good hundred yards away from the camp and into the woods. When there is no subsequent explosion, he turns and looks at Phillips with the most comically confused expression he's ever seen outside of a Marx Brothers film. 

He carefully masked his shock and said, “Good arm, kid.” He gave the smug Erskine a long suffering look and a grudging nod, and then marched away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do not go around throwing live grenades, as I am not sure that would work. We can't all live in a comic book's movie's fanfiction, sadly.
> 
> Sorry for the long wait to the two people who are reading this. Hope you liked it.
> 
> EDIT: Beta'd by the lovely EstherCloyse, who has my undying gratitude.


	4. Chapter 4

**2012:**

“Stark...? Howard Stark?” Bucky mumbles dazedly. 

“Wrong Stark, buddy,” Iron Man replies. His posture remains relaxed (or as relaxed as anyone can be in what amounts to a sartorial armory) but there's an audible tension in his voice.

“Oh... right, you're old Starkers' son,” Bucky says, using the old nickname without thinking. He's surprised by the sudden wave of loss he feels. For god's sake, he hadn't even _known_ Stark that well. 

Stark 2.0 had taken off before he'd even finished his sentence. He sighs, resists the urge to flip him off, and goes to secure the still-smoking Loki.

“All right, upsy-daisy,” Bucky grunts, pulling him to his feet.

“What do daisies have to do with anything?” Loki asks scornfully, remarkably put together and... alive for someone who just got blown up. “Mortal vernacular is as idiotic as it is mystifying.”

“So is your hair. Do you have mousse in Valhalla or is it like that naturally?”

Loki doesn't respond, busy eying the staff-spear-thing in Bucky's other hand. He solves that particular issue by putting the god in a sleeper hold.

Well, it doesn't really solve anything.

“As much as I am enjoying this,” Loki says drily after a long, fruitless minute, “it doesn't seem to be doing anything for you.”

“Sorry, I'm a necrophiliac,” Bucky deadpans. “Only one way to make this as good for me as it is for you. Hold still.”

Loki makes a weird, suppressed snorting sound that, at a stretch, might be considered a laugh.

\---

Loki sits in the back of the jet, suspiciously docile, considering the circumstances. His performance back at the plaza was so over-the-top that Bucky suspects that he wanted to be found.

“Hey, Cap,” Stark says, breaking the silence. “What was that back there? You fight pretty badly for a war hero.”

“And you talk pretty big for a rich boy hiding behind an entire arsenal,” Bucky responds, shooting him a glare. Stark just smirks at him.

There's a sudden, incredibly loud explosion and a flash of light right next to the jet.

“Fuck!” Bucky yelps, startling Stark. “Are those shells?” 

“Worse,” Loki sighs theatrically, “thunder.”

“ _Shut up_ ,” he snarls, and then rounds on Romanov. “You said we weren't at war anymore!”

She just blinks at him, unreadable, still managing to pilot smoothly without looking out the cockpit window.

Bucky is all set to start yelling and maybe punch Stark if the situation demands (he really hopes it does) when some long-haired freak in an outfit almost as strange as Loki's flies in, snatches the demigod, and jumps out again. Stark is quick to follow.

Bucky mutters a string of obscenities, but he grabs a parachute and quickly straps it on, tamping down on his rising hysteria. A little voice in his head that sounds like Steve tells him, _Don't rush in, Buck, you need a plan, you're gonna get yourself killed._ He ignores it.

“Captain – ” Romanov starts.

“ _This_ time, I get a parachute.” He winks at her, and drops into the open air for the second time that day.

\---

When he touches down (heavily – god, is he glad he was never a paratrooper) it's not exactly difficult to find them.

“They went that way,” Loki calls down from his vantage point on the cliff, pointing helpfully.

Bucky takes in the wide swathe of scorched ground and the numerous fallen trees, the angry shouts in the distance, and orange flares of light that remind him sharply of artillery fire. 

“Thanks. Never woulda guessed.” He stares up at Loki, who has a cat-that-caught-the-canary face on. “You gonna run?”

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

Bucky shrugs to himself and sets off for the squabbling dynamic duo. He'd worry about Loki later.

By the time he reaches them, they're in the middle of one of the most spectacularly over-the-top fights that Bucky's ever seen. 

“Hey!” he yells, and ends up inhaling smoke from the smoldering underbrush. They don't hear the shout or the ensuing coughing fit, too absorbed in taking their huge (metaphorical) johnsons and bashing each other over the head with them.

Bucky finds a couple decent-sized rocks and chucks them at the two brawlers in quick succession. Each one meets their mark. Pretty good for someone pushing ninety.

Stark and Blondie turn to glare at him in unison, as if exasperated by the interruption. 

“Ladies, ladies, I know I'm a catch, but there's no need to fight over me,” Bucky announces. “There's more than enough for everyone.” He gestures at his crotch with a magnanimous grin.

“ …That's one thing I never though I'd hear a man your age say,” Stark responds, but even in the odd, robotic voice of his suit it sounds a little shell shocked. “You kiss Lady Liberty with that mouth?”

“Nah, I usually kiss Uncle Sam. Lady Liberty gets a kiss, too, just not on her mouth.”

“Who is this lady of liberty and what importance does she hold in these events?” Thor asks, rather crossly.

“Aw, don't be jealous, baby,” Stark coos. 

“So, uh, who are you again?” Bucky interjects, selflessly distracting the gorilla from beating the idiot's face in.

“I am Thor Odinson, heir to the throne of Asgard. I have come to return Loki to my father so that he may pass judgment on my brother's crimes.”

“Okay, well, he's not going anywhere until he gives us the Tesseract,” Stark says.

“It is not his to give,” Thor said severely, “nor is it meant for mortals such as yourselves.”

“And you've done such a great job protecting it,” Bucky snarks. “It's been on Earth for a while, buddy, and if SHIELD has its way, it ain't leaving. So just put the hammer down and we can work somethin' out.”

“Yeah, no, bad call,” Stark interjects, “he loves his hammer – ” He's cut off by said hammer being driven into his midriff and throwing him a good fifty feet away. Bucky whistles, impressed.

“You want me to put the hammer down?!” Thor roars, barreling towards him.

“Shit,” Bucky squeaks, and dodges like a particularly cowardly matador, realizing with a sinking feeling in his gut that he dropped his shield.

Mjolnir connects to it with a metallic clang, and the resulting explosion sends them all reeling.

“Ow,” Stark complains dazedly, after a long moment. Thor and Bucky groan their agreement. It's a ceasefire born of mutual suffering.

Loki's hysterical laughter is their mocking theme music all the way back to the HeliCarrier.

 

**1942:**

Bucky was hungry.

It was probably not the thing he should have been thinking about, with the imminent procedure looming over his head, but he wasn't allowed to eat until it was over.

Hunger was nothing he couldn't deal with; when things got particularly bad in his childhood he could go days without food. Steve had always tried to make him eat his share, but Steve needed it more than he did. 

Wait, why the hell was he thinking of Steve when he was sitting next to a doll of an English dame? Peggy Carter may have been chilly, but Bucky was attractive and charming; he'd won over his fair share of women who initially didn't like him.

Bucky had been thinking of Steve more and more as of late. He'd never gone so long without seeing his ugly mug since they'd first met. He wondered if Steve had sketched anything new lately – 

God damn it, he was doing it _again._ It was all he could do to keep himself from pointing out their favorite haunts to Carter, which wasn't the way to woo a woman. Bucky would know, he'd tried it before.

They pulled to a stop in front of a townhouse. 

“Lil cramped, ain't it?” Bucky said skeptically.

“You'll see,” Carter responded in clipped tone.

Bucky did see. It was like something out of a magazine, a secret laboratory full of mad scientists.

Or maybe just one mad scientist.

Howard Fucking Stark offered him his hand. “Hello, I'm – ”

“Howard Fucking Stark,” Bucky marveled.

His lips quirked slightly. “I guess you could stay that.”

“I was gonna go to your expo, but then this happened,” Bucky said, making a vague, all-encompassing hand gesture.

“Forget the expo; we're making history _here_ ,” Stark said grandly. Bucky stifled a snort, abruptly much less impressed with the guy. 

Things happen pretty quickly, after that. The procedure hurts like a bitch, but he came out 4 inches taller and with a six-pack instead of a four-pack, so he guessed it worked. 

That was when Erskine got shot.

Bucky tried to hare off after the guy, but Erskine beckons him closer, and Bucky wasn't about to refuse anything to a dying man, state secrets be damned.

“Be... the protector... you have always... been,” Erskine gasped. “Now _go_.”

For possibly the first time in his life, Bucky willingly did as he was told.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahahaha . . . I should probably work on my other fics, but finals. Sorry for the wait, for this fic especially. Enjoy?
> 
> AOU WAS FUCKING AWFUL OH MY GOD

**2012:**

When they get back to the HeliCarrier, Loki is escorted to his fishbowl and the rest of them wander into a conference room to watch his interactions with Fury. Bucky sits silently as Thor, Dr. Banner, and Agent Romanov trade intel and bounce ideas off one another, although Thor glares at him when he snorts at the thought of an alien army.

He gets up to leave as soon as Stark walks into the room, his ego so huge that he finds it hard to breathe. Stark smirks at him as he goes, and comments, “Spangles.”

“Junior,” Bucky replies, and fights a smile when Stark's eyes harden. He nods at Coulson as he passes him, and Coulson almost salutes.

Bucky's mind turns to more important things, like the similarity of the staff to other, less ridiculous-looking weapons. Zola's designs had killed thousands, Steve among them, which – He needs to make sure Fury's not planning on doing the same.

Breaking into storage is distressingly easy. Bucky was sure that he would at least set off an alarm. He surveys the countless boxes around him, and starts looking.

The sun is rising when he strides into the lab. Stark looks up, no doubt with a barb at the ready, but Bucky ignores him. He throws the gun, so similar to the one that blasted the train car open, to the ground. “What the _fuck_ is this?”

“Ah, that would be Phase Two. Seems Big Brother isn't being completely honest with us,” Stark says. Bucky ignores him, attempting to glare Fury into submission. It doesn't really work, but not for lack of trying.

Bucky doesn't remember much of the argument that follows, only the anger that consumes him. He's always had “a temper on him,” as his Ma used to say, but since the train he's been nothing but anger, and he's finally found people who deserve to have it unleashed on them.

“Don't fucking tempt me,” he roars into Stark's face, “I will break your jaw right here _so help me god_ – ”

An explosion rocks the HeliCarrier. Everyone stumbles a little, dazed with something more sinister than just the impact.

“We should probably get on that,” Romanov mutters, and soon everyone's scrambling to their respective stations. 

–

Bucky stands by the engine, feeling vaguely useless while waiting for Stark to give him the signal to pull the lever. Levers are good and simple and haven't changed much since 1945. He can handle levers. 

Christ, he hates heights. 

A spray of bullets catches Bucky by surprise, one literally. He hisses a stream of profanity, clutching his rapidly dampening shoulder, and hunkers behind a twisted jut of metal and machinery.

“Cap, what – ” Stark begins, alarm audible even through the strange, inhuman filter of his helmet.

“Hostiles. Taking care of it.” And out he goes. 

Bucky handles the pain as he goes through a series of death-defying acrobatics while dispatching the bogeys, but it isn't easy. He's never gotten shot in the shoulder before and it fucking stings.

But he soon has bigger issues, the most pressing being that the HeliCarrier is falling and so is he.

He snags a loose cable with his bad arm and howls, but manages to make it sound more enraged than pained.

“Barnes, now would be a good time to pull the lever,” Stark says urgently.

“Patience is a virtue,” Bucky grits, pulling himself up hand over hand.

“ _Now,_ asshole.”

“Keep your unmentionables on, ma'am,” he retorts, just as Stark lets out a small “uh-oh” and the engine starts trying to rip him apart. He can't really blame it.

Bucky admittedly takes a little longer than necessary to pull the damn thing, but the HeliCarrier is still righting itself and he needs to catch his breath. Stark's shrieks are just a bonus.

They very nearly start going at it again until Fury's voice cuts in over the comm: “Agent Coulson is down.”

–

When Bucky sees the cards, he nearly cracks the table.

–

He eventually wanders into the infirmary, where Romanov is tending to the archer by staring very intensely at him while the bump on his head swells. She directs him to the scalpels, subtly positioning herself between he and Barton as she does, and watches him cut a bullet out of the new layer of skin and muscle on his shoulder. It's a strange sort of bonding experience.

Barton eventually wakes, and they talk quietly in the adjacent restroom while Bucky picks at the drying blood on his suit. When they reemerge, he asks Romanov one question: “He good to go?”

–

**1942**

Bucky hated show business.

It was nice to see all the ladies in their sparkly get ups, and it was even nicer to see them out of them, but he was restless in a way that even sex couldn't abate completely. He wondered if this was how Steve felt, why he started fights he couldn't win – except Steve would probably only have the company of his own hand, even if they switched places. He was too stupidly honorable, and he wouldn't know what to do with a woman even if she sat in his lap.

He felt oddly vindicated at the thought. If Steve was a terrier, too small and too stubborn for anyone's good, then Bucky was his long-suffering owner. He knew he didn't _own_ Steve, not really, but Steve needed Bucky too much to belong wholly to himself, anyways. The thought of Steve coming to depend on someone else – or even take on a provider role for another person – made him angry in a way he couldn't quite name.

Bucky brushed the thought away. He was just envious because even that scrappy little half-pint was fighting while Bucky was stuck selling war bonds. Steve wasn't on the ground, thank god, but he had managed to find some rich milksop desperate enough to pay him to take the draft in his place (though Steve would've done it for free), and now he was part of a bomber crew. It wasn't the 107th, but at that point Steve would take anything he could get.

Despite his discontent, Bucky didn't feel truly ashamed until he paid a visit to the front lines.

“I'm not going out there. Especially not in _this,_ ” he growled, plucking at the costume in question.

The stage manager, a long-suffering fellow who was an old hand with the moods of various actors, sighed. Bucky hadn't flat-out refused to go out onstage since opening night. “Now, Captain – ”he began.

“Don't fucking call me Captain!” Bucky snarled. “I've done nothing to earn it, not like these men, and I'm not going to go out there and insult them and make an ass out of myself!” He strode out of the makeshift changing room before the manager could stop him. He heard his cue, and the confused silence when he didn't appear, but the men are far too preoccupied with the girls to care.

He sat in a deserted corner of camp for a good long while, and he eventually heard distinct footsteps behind him. 

“There you are. Sulking again, are we?”

“Carter,” he mutters, hastily tacking on a “ma'am” when he recalled what she did to Hodge.

“The show's over. You're leaving tomorrow, so stop hiding.”

“I'm not leaving,” he says, “I belong _here,_ fighting, instead of being paraded around like a prize hog!”

He heard her sigh, and abruptly felt very childish.

“You can ask Colonel Philips again. He's in the command tent. Who knows, he might even consider it, this time.”

Bucky got up, collected himself, shot her a charming wink. “Thanks, Agent.”

She rolled her eyes heavenwards, very much uncharmed, and turns on her heel. He'll make her smile one of these days.

Colonel Philips looked grim. He always looked grim, so Bucky wasn't particularly phased.

“Barnes,” he greeted shortly. “I take it you've already heard.”

“Heard what?” Bucky asks. News during wartime is rarely good.

The lines around Philips' eyes and mouth tighten, almost pained. “Your friend Rogers, the one you asked me to keep an eye on . . . his Boeing went down behind enemy lines two days ago.”


End file.
